Hungry Woman in Paris (20 page)

A snooty British guy named Jason got second place. “He’s such a jerk,” Bassie whispered in my other ear.

My name was called and I was just grateful that I’d passed the exam and wondered who was whispering things about me. About
one hundred students got their diplomas that day; everyone applauded because the ceremony had finally ended. I got my diploma,
but I refused to look at my scores on my final sheet. I gave myself a consolation speech in the ladies’ room when I looked
in the mirror: “I’m proud of you, Canela. For someone who never cooked a day in her life before cooking school, you did good.”
If that didn’t help, two glasses of champagne would make me want to celebrate this and all the other small accomplishments.
Bassie had also sought comfort in a bottle. She had already had too much wine, and was rambling about Henry being such a great
lover.

“What did you say about Henry?” I asked her, trying to make sure I hadn’t imagined what she’d said.

“Ooops. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” Bassie covered her mouth like a little girl who had just said a bad word.

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to show her how nonimportant the whole Henry thing was to me.

“I’m sorry. I know you were with him and—”

“And you fucked him anyway… It doesn’t mean anything to me,” I assured her.

“I see the way you look at him,” Bassie said, too serious for my comfort. Was she accusing me of something?

“I don’t care. Have fun with him. He’s… fun,” I said to her nonchalantly.

“You sure that doesn’t bother you?” she asked me.

“No. There was nothing serious. Henry doesn’t get serious,” I confessed, showing too much emotion.

“Ah! See, I can tell you still have feelings for him,” Bassie said, proud of her detective work. She giggled like a little
sister having caught her older sister kissing a photograph of her latest crush. Although I liked Bassie most days, sometimes
I wanted to treat her like a little sister and lock her in the closet or tape her mouth shut.

“No… Look, let’s talk about something else. I know how lonely it gets in Paris, so I’m happy you have a new friend .
. . with benefits.” I was trying to get the image of Bassie and Henry in sexual positions off my inner movie-theater screen.
Bassie was not bad-looking, but I couldn’t imagine her being his type. I bet they were drunk.

“Look. They brought out the
macarons,
” I announced and made a run for the dessert table to get away from the conversation. I grabbed a burgundy
macaron
and forgot my problems; the five-second sweet high I got from a few bites was enough to make me forget Henry. It was so delicious
and sinful I couldn’t stop till I’d finished all the burgundy-colored
macarons
. Miyuki came up to the dessert table.

“Are they good?” Miyuki asked in her British-accented English.

“Yes. They are amazing. I must leave the table now or I’ll eat them all.”

She tasted one and giggled. Miyuki was so pretty and petite, with white pearl earrings to go with her outfit. Chef Guillaume,
the pastry chef, came up to her and told her he’d made the
macarons
himself, smiling like the big flirt that he was. She complimented him and laughed at his stupid jokes. I left the dessert
table and looked around to see all the various groups and cliques; it was like high school again. Sélange came up to me and
said that the administrator needed to talk to me; it was urgent. I left the celebration and went into the office. The administrator
asked me to sit down, and that’s when I knew it was serious. I was expecting her to tell me that I had not passed and I was
going to get kicked out or something bad like that when she started apologizing.

“I don’t know how this mistake happened, but for some reason you are not registered for Superior Cuisine.”

“I paid for all three courses at the same time,” I reminded her.

“Yes, that’s why it’s unexplainable. But you’ll just have to wait fifteen weeks until the next course starts.”

“Fifteen weeks!” I said, raising my voice. I couldn’t hide my anger. Fifteen weeks meant that I would be alone with my suicidal
thoughts.

“Well, why can’t you just register me back in?” The solution seemed so obvious I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t already
done it.

“Because it’s all full. There is absolutely no room left… Wait a minute. There is a class starting in ten weeks.”

“Great. Then register me for that class.”

“It’s an intensive class. Is that okay?”

I had sworn to myself never to do another intensive class again, but the prospect of spending fifteen weeks away from cooking
school with no real friend in Paris made me reconsider my promise. “Yes. It’s all right.”

“Maybe you can work on your French in those ten weeks because Superior Cuisine is not translated,” she reminded me. I nodded,
left her office, and went back to the reception. An hour later I went to clean out my locker. Sage walked into the locker
room lost in her thoughts. She was smiling and I asked her what she was scheming.

“Who? Me? Why do you ask?” she said with a big smile.

“You’re smiling. Two hours ago you were pissed off and bitter.”

“What are you doing tonight?” she asked me, changing the subject.

“I have no plans. As a matter of fact, for the next ten weeks I have no plans.”

“What do you mean? You’re continuing with Superior, aren’t you?”

“No, they screwed up and didn’t register me for Superior. Now I have to kill time on my own until Intensive Superior Cuisine
begins, ten weeks from now.”

I had agreed to meet Sage by the metro next to her apartment in the Maraïs. Sage had urged me to wear something sexy, so I
was anticipating a blind date or some kind of setup. I was not prepared for her plans.

“I got an invitation from Chef Sauber to come over to his apartment. He wants to cook dinner for me.”

“He wants to cook dinner for you? Why do you want me to come along if he invited you?” I asked.

“I started telling him about how much I wanted a
stage
at a three-star restaurant and how disappointed I was that I hadn’t placed. I worked so hard and I didn’t place. I practically
cried in his champagne, so he felt sorry for me and invited me to dinner to talk about it.” Sage seemed a little too eager
for me to believe her.

“So what’s the problem? Why do I need to go?” I asked, not bothering to hide my suspicion.

“You saw how depressed I was and how much champagne I drank… well, I was flirting with him and now I think he expects
me to show him some flesh or let him taste me or something.”

“So do you want me as a chaperone or am I a two-for-one deal?”

“Look, just come with me,” she said, rolling her eyes and not answering my question. “We can flirt with him and play along
and see if he can get us both a
stage
at one of the best restaurants.”

“But I’m not planning on doing a
stage
. I don’t care about that.”

“Okay, then do this as a favor to me. Look, how often does a world-famous chef cook for you at his apartment? We’ll just eat
his food, drink his wine, and laugh at his jokes, and if he starts getting nasty or inappropriate I’ll take pictures of him
in a compromising position and blackmail him,” she admitted, trying to make it sound as innocent as possible.

“Why do you want to do this? You’re such a good cook you can probably earn it on your own.”

“Canela, come on. We both know it’s the guys who get all the respect and that the blondes and pretty girls who flirt with
the chefs get higher scores. Look at Miyuki. There’s no way she could have gotten first place. I have a friend who was right
next to her station and she tells me Miyuki flirts with the chefs all the time and they help her with things… I’ve heard
things…”

“But it’s wrong to—” the feminist in me interjected. Yes, by now you surely know I am a hypocrite, but having sex with a teacher
for fun is one thing; doing it to get a good grade or get ahead is another.

“Canela, please save the lecture. Yes, if we were in the U.S., this would be unthinkable. But here in France, seduction is
how you get ahead. I’m just playing their game.”

“Don’t you think it’s degrading to—?” I tried to reason one last time.

“No. I really want this. Please help me. It will be quick. I promise.”

“Okay, I’ll go with you, but the minute anything weird happens, I’m leaving.” Sage knew I meant it.

Sage and I rehearsed our roles and we agreed on hand signals and gestures that would help us communicate with each other in
case Chef Sauber tried something. Sage asked around in her broken French for directions, and after several failed attempts
a little old lady made us follow her and pointed to a tiny street not found on any tourist map. We climbed the stairs to a
decrepit apartment building. We rang the doorbell, and as soon as he opened the door it struck me that this was not really
Chef Sauber’s apartment. A man so successful and creative would have a residence that would rival Yves’s apartment. I knew
Chef Sauber was divorced, but this apartment was too tiny and unkempt to be his. In demonstration class he was always meticulous,
organized, and clean. You could eat off him. This apartment was out of character. He caught me studying the interior design
and said he’d just moved in and was sorry the place was a mess. Sage handed him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and he kissed her
on both cheeks, commenting on how thoughtful it was of her to remember how much he liked American whiskey. Sage introduced
me and Chef Sauber said, “Viva México” to demonstrate that he remembered me clearly. He kissed me on both cheeks and I got
a whiff of his fine cologne.

When we sat down on his couch, I could practically feel the sexual tension left behind by other young American female cuisine
students. Sexual tension, just like violent energy, leaves an imprint on things in the ether. I’ve developed a feeling for
it over years of covering all sorts of stories. I’ve reported on everything from rape and gang violence to celebrity gossip.
I was a social issues reporter covering immigrant stories, but did a little bit of everything just so I wouldn’t get bored.
On occasion when I was covering a march or a rally I would get pushed by an anarchist pretending to be an activist or get
teargassed by police or shoved and threatened by any number of officials or men in power. Whenever I would return to the scene
of the incident, the wind would practically whisper to me all the details that had come before, and the energy would be heavy.

I reclined on the couch and lost my balance—my legs went up and I’m sure I accidentally gave Chef Sauber a peek at my leopard-print
panties. Sage looked at me, wondering if I had started flirting already. I shot a look back at her to tell her it was an accident
and she should start pleading her case. Sage was about to share with Chef Sauber how she’d dreamed of being a chef since she
was a little girl, making pancakes in her play kitchen, when he interrupted her, telling her to save her story. The stuffed
quails needed to be taken out of the oven. He left for the kitchen and I got up and looked around. On the floor was mail.
I made sure his back was to us, then studied the date on the junk mail: five months ago. I looked around for a few seconds
before he returned with two glasses of champagne.

“Voilà. L’apéritif.”
He gave us each a glass and we drank. I slowly put the pieces together and realized that this was the place where he seduced
women. Maybe he wasn’t married anymore, but only his real girlfriend would get to be in his real apartment. This was the casa
chica, the small house for the mistresses and lovers.

Sage continued her story and he interrupted her again, this time to compliment her on the sexy dress she was wearing.

“The uniforms make the women so unattractive,” Chef Sauber said. I wanted to reply that it was supposed to make us look like
sacks of potatoes so the chefs would keep their hands off us, but I wasn’t drunk enough to just spit it out in my usual uncensored
style. Sage took the compliment with ease and flirtatiously complimented him back.

“Chef Sauber, you also look very handsome out of your uniform,” Sage commented, using her little-girl voice. He smiled and
drank from his wine.

“S’il vous plaît,
call me Renault. We are now friends,” he declared.

“I heard you were good friends with several of the chefs from the three-star restaurants,” Sage continued. He waved his head
and sort of agreed.

“Yes, it looks good on your résumé to work at these places, but you must also find a place where you will feel comfortable.
Sometimes all you do is cut vegetables at the three-star restaurants, but you can do a lot more at smaller and lesser-known
restaurants.”

“Yes, that’s true, but I want to go back to New York City with a strong résumé that will get me considered for sous-chef and
eventually become a chef,” Sage countered.

“If that’s what you want, then no problem. I will help you. I will call Ducasse or Savoy or Robuchon. Whichever one you want
me to call,” he offered without hesitation.

Sage’s face lit up as if Santa Claus had just told her she was getting a pony for Christmas. Chef Sauber left our side to
attend to the kitchen.

“Sage, you got what you wanted—now let’s fake a headache and get out of here,” I demanded.

“Mademoiselles, venez ici,”
Chef Sauber said, calling us into the kitchen. When I saw the table all set up for an haute cuisine experience, plans for
a pretend headache vanished. Why waste a free meal? I asked myself. I could fake the headache after we ate. Or, better yet,
a food allergy.

We sat down and had a
salade de homard au melon
with strawberry vinaigrette for our first dish, or as our entrée, as they really call it in France. He would join us at the
table to eat but would become our waiter and sommelier at different times throughout the meal. When he brought the main dish
to the table, my eyes watered and my mouth tingled. On our plates were two perfectly positioned quails stuffed with green
seedless grapes and foie gras. So this is what they were supposed to look like done right. When I’d done my stuffed quails
in practical, I’d been unable to remove the skin without cutting little holes everywhere. My poor quails had looked like a
serial killer had butchered them in an alley and the police were trying to reassemble them to make sense of the crime scene.